Robb read through the letter which had informed him that Ramsay Snow was currently residing at Harrenhal with his father after leaving Bardtower and its residents dead in his path. Of course there had been no evidence. People muttered that there were still ironborn men in the North, raping and pillaging as much as they could. But Robb knew better than that. Rumours held no truth, and the truth was that Ramsay Snow was responsible for everything.

"You have been reading that damned letter for ages," Roslin's voice suddenly whined as she lounged on the four post bed in the middle of the room. Robb ignored her, content to sit at the desk and read the letter another hundred times if it kept him from their marital bed. "You need not fear, my moon's blood passed the other day. You have given me no heir yet."

Robb closed his orbs, a sense of relief flowing through him as he placed the letter onto the desk and finally stood up. He began to shed his cloak from his shoulders, pacing the room as he did so. The fire in the wood was still burning and provided the only source of heat and life.

"You could at least pretend to look sorry," Roslin whispered back and Robb ground his teeth together.

"I'm sorry," he spoke to her, the words clearly forced and insincere. "Perhaps next time you shall be fortunate."

"We," she corrected him, pulling her knees to her chest and crossing her ankles. "The child will be ours."

"I am well aware," Robb responded in a mumble, finally stripping down to nothing but his breeches and shirt. "But war is no time for a babe to arrive. It could be too dangerous for you."

Roslin scoffed and Robb sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching for the cup of wine on the bedside cabinet and draining it as Roslin draped herself over him, her arms under his as her hands ran up the planes of his chest. He kept still as she bit down on his shoulder, a small smirk on her face as she did so.

"When are you going to forget?" she dared to ask Robb. "The girl has gone and that is all there is to it. She is not your wife and she never will be. It has been weeks since you have last seen her."

"And you think that is long enough for me to forget about her?" Robb checked with Roslin.

"Well when will it be long enough?" Roslin hissed back. "Do you think that I don't know how you wish it were her underneath you when you take me? Or how you whisper her name when you're asleep in the dead of the night? You have no idea how I feel."

Roslin pulled back from Robb and sat against the headboard, pulling the covers around her body so that they could pool at her lap. Robb sighed and ran a hand along his temple, wondering what he could do to appease his wife. It had never been his intention to make Roslin unhappy. He had never wished for that. But he did not wish for her in general.

"I'm sorry," Robb finally apologised after an awkward silence. "I know that you deserve someone better than me...someone who would love you..."

"But I ended up with you," Roslin said. "It isn't about what we deserve; it is about what we get. I doubt anyone truly has what they deserve."

Robb moved to sit on the bed beside his wife, staying on top of the furs as she slowly moved to curl into a ball, not entirely in the mood for lovemaking that evening. Robb watched her turn away from him and he knew that he had given her a loveless marriage. He felt sorry for her, he truly did, but he could not pretend that she held his heart. He had given that away a long time ago to a serving maid from Winterfell.

...

Talia would often sit up in the middle of the night, watching Isabelle as she squirmed around in her bed, her covers and nightgown askew on her body as she slept through the nightmares she had. It would always end the same way; Isabelle sitting up straight and panting for breath, sweat dripping down her brow. Talia would always comfort the girl, urging her back to sleep and telling her that everything would be alright. But it was always his name she whispered during the nightmares. Ramsay would always haunt her.

Isabelle awoke early after the nightmares, often changing and wandering out of the home to go and look through the market for fresh food. The kitchen in their shared home was usually empty, the women choosing to whore themselves and the men choosing to enjoy their pleasure as often as possible.

"My dear," a small man suddenly spoke as Isabelle took hold of two apples and dropped them into the basket she carried with her, "how about an exotic fruit, just for you?"

"Oh, I really don't have the money," Isabelle said, the man behind the stall pressing the lemon into her hand before turning away to deal with another customer. But it wasn't the lemon which bothered Isabelle, it was the note attached to it.

She dropped the fruit into her basket, the small piece of parchment in her hand as she unravelled it and read the message. Her brows knitted together in confusion before she looked around, wondering if anyone was watching her. Pressing the note to the bottom of the basket, she stood tall and wandered the streets, finally coming to the place the note had spoken of.

She looked around slowly, her eyes widening as she realised she was right on the edge of the place they called Flea Bottom. Although the view hardly befit its name. She stood at the edge of the path, rocks beneath her as the sea lapped against them. Children played in the shallow depths of the water, laughing and giggling as though they did not have a care in the world. The sun beat down over Isabelle, the heat causing her to sweat in her cheap cotton gown.

"My Lady, how good of you to come."

Isabelle turned her head over her shoulder to the sight of a bald headed man approaching her in a fine gown. His hands were laced together in his sleeves and his eyes were scrunched up due to the beating sun. He finally stood before Isabelle, rocking back on his heels as he gave a small knowing smile.

"I can see why the Young Wolf was quite taken with you," he spoke. "You have a rather fair complexion. The sun must be horrid for such pale skin."

"I think you have the wrong person," Isabelle said.

"Now, now, we both know that not to be true," he responded. "I am well aware of whom you are and your tale, Lady Eleanor, there is no need to lie to me. You cannot lie to the master of whispers."

Isabelle's orbs widened as she laced her own fingers together, the basket dangling on her wrist as she felt her mouth dry up, wondering if this was some kind of trick on her part. Why had she come? Why did she listen to the message?

"And I have yet to have the pleasure of your name."

"No pleasure," he replied, "but I am Varys."

"And what is it you wanted Lord Varys?"

"Oh, I want many things, dear," Varys sighed, offering her his arm for her to walk with him along the coast. She hesitantly took his arm, holding her basket in her right hand as her eyes remained on the sea. "I wish for the Summer never to end. I wish for a long and prosperous life, but at this moment in time, I wish for an end to the war and bloodshed. I think it is something which might not happen as soon as I had hoped for."

"And why do you need me for that?"

"I had heard tales about your husband, the bastard of Bolton. I trust them to be true," Varys spoke in a hushed tone. "If so then I have some news which you should know of."

"And what would that be?"

"He rides for King's Landing."

Standing still, Isabelle felt her heat beat quicken and her pulse race. Varys looked to her, the frightened expression on her face enough to tell him that her years of torture still haunted her, even whilst pretending to be dead.

"He does not know you are here, my dear," Varys spoke softly, taking Isabelle's hands into his and giving them a squeeze which Isabelle assumed was meant to be comforting. She kept silent, her mouth drying up and her mind going blank. "He does not think you dead, however. He searches for you and leaves a trail of destruction wherever he goes."

"Then why does he ride for King's Landing?" Isabelle fretted.

"I do not know as of yet," Varys responded. "I merely wished to inform you of his arrival. I apologise it had to be done in such secrecy."

Nodding, Isabelle took her hands from Varys, her left hand shaking as she moved to run it through her hair in a nervous motion. She looked back out to sea, gulping as she thought about Ramsay being in the same city as her. That was enough to fill her with dread.

"Why did you tell me?" Isabelle replied and Varys gave her a sad smile. "How did you know I was here?"

"I have no intention of returning you to him so you need not look so worried," Varys assured her in a soothing voice. "I am the master of whisperers, my dear. Your death shocked so many, but rumours of it being false spread. It was not as difficult as you may think. I have heard of what he did to you and I thought forewarning would be for the best. I doubt you would want anymore scars on your skin."

Isabelle watched as Varys slowly turned from her after a departing nod and she watched him go, wondering whether or not she could trust that man.

...

Tywin Lannister was not one who was used to dealing with bastards. He could scarcely believe that he had one sat in front of him at his desk right at that very moment. He looked up once as the boy had walked in as though he had the upper ground, his eyes looking at the surroundings of the Tower of the Hand. He had scraped the chair against the floor before he sat down, his plump lips turning into a smile as Tywin returned to finish writing his letter.

"What is it that I can do for you, Ramsay?" Tywin suddenly asked, dispersing with titles for the bastard of Roose Bolton.

Ramsay lounged back in his chair, his arms resting on the armrests and his fingers lacing together. There was a cocky look about him which Tywin wouldn't mind wiping off of his face. But he kept silent, waiting for the boy to speak of his reason for being in King's Landing.

"I suspect there is nothing you would want more than for the King in the North's head to decorate the Red Keep. The existing ones do look rather menacing."

Tywin kept silent, trying to weigh up the man in front of him.

"I think that is something everyone is aware of." Tywin picked his words carefully.

"And what if I told you that I knew of a way that it could happen?"

"Then I would ask what you knew."

Ramsay leaned out to pour himself a cup of wine, not bothering to ask if he could take one. "I know that the King in the North has angered a lot of people. If you were to have House Frey and House Bolton turn against him then it would be possible."

"He married a Frey."

"He would rather fuck a Bolton," Ramsay counteracted. "He helped to fake my wife's death. He dishonours his own Frey wife every single day by refusing to give her the attention she so desires. If the Freys knew how he planned to discard her after this war then I doubt they would be very happen."

"And does he plan to discard her?"

"You can have him plan to do whatever he wishes," Ramsay grinned back.

"And run away with your wife?" Tywin checked. "The wife who killed herself."

"The Greyjoy boys says otherwise." Ramsay shrugged. "Eleanor has never been melodramatic up until now. But I would say that he has kept her in hiding somewhere, waiting until the war is over and he can take her far from Westeros. He would have used House Frey, and I doubt Lord Walder would accept that."

Tywin didn't wish to confess himself impressed with the working of the boy's mind, but he did see logic to it. Lies on top of lies; they were something Tywin could cope with.

"My father would rally to your side too if he knew that you could win with the most numbers. He is rather fickle," Ramsay assured Tywin.

"And how do you propose we capture the Young Wolf?"

"He sits idle at Riverrun...there has to be some way to have him return to the Twins where Lord Walder resides. He has more men who wait there and who would turn against him."

Nodding, Tywin considered the ploy with intent before he stood up, his hand running around the perimeter of his desk. He lowered his eyes to look to Ramsay, the boy not once faltering under his menacing stare.

"And what do you want in return?"

Ramsay stood up then, his cloak draping down his back as he kept his chin high. "I want my wife to come out of hiding. I want you to hold the Wolf King prisoner and send ravens that he will not be harmed if she makes herself known...tell her that we shall send him to the Wall."

"And she will believe that?"

"She would do anything for Robb Stark," Ramsay replied.

"But you are well aware that I would not send him to the Wall."

Ramsay's grin grew larger then, the sadistic look on his face enough to make Lord Tywin wonder what kind of horrors Ramsay inflicted on his wife.

"I will even swing the sword to cut his head from his body if that is what you wish."

...

A/N: Oh Ramsay...anyway, thank you to Dark G0ddess, Mikki19, CLTex, Kate, Isnotamusedir and xxxRena for reviewing the previous chapter. Do let me know what you think!